


Salty

by Dangersocks



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Big Rico's Pizza, Blob!Cecil, Carlos is Unimpressed, Cecil is Inhuman, Cecil is questioningly a good boyfriend, M/M, Post-Episode: e025 One Year Later, Post-Live Show: Condos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/pseuds/Dangersocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil may neglect to inform Carlos about some things. Carlos decides to confront the other about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salty

**Author's Note:**

> I took a break from NaNoWriMo to write some tribute pieces for artists I adore. This is a small piece for Saltysalmonella, whom I follow on Tumblr.
> 
> Salty has my love for many reasons and one of the most prominent is her style of drawing Cecil and other Night Valean characters as inhuman blobs and bleep bloops -- writhing masses of tentacles, with too many limbs and countless eyes and morphing tissues. And Salty still makes the characters expressive and adorable!
> 
> You can check out some examples here: 
> 
> http://saltysalmonella.tumblr.com/tagged/blob%21cecil

Carlos steps into the apartment and stares at the empty space. A presence fills the room but Carlos cannot see Cecil.

 

“We need to talk,” he states.

 

An outsider looking at Carlos’ appearance may begin to understand why Carlos’ tone is one of resignation and annoyance.

 

“It was my mandatory day at Big Rico’s,” continues the scientist. “And _someone_ failed to inform me about the annual event they were holding.”

 

The air temperature shifts. Carlos knows that Cecil is close by and that the other is probably listening. Carlos hopes that his words are being heard rather than just the decibel that is uniquely Carlos’ voice. Sometimes communicating is hard because of this.

 

“Everyone else had been informed. The whole town practically showed up.” Carlos keeps his tone a level ‘I am not upset’ one in case Cecil is only drinking up the sound waves instead of content. Carlos’ frustration usually brings Cecil around.

 

Usually.

 

“It’s your job to keep everyone informed so I have to ask if you deliberately kept me ignorant of today’s planned events, and why would you do tha --”

 

The sentence has barely escaped Carlos’ teeth when he feels it: a sensation like a cloud crossing over the sun on an afternoon when no clouds are meteorologically possible; a blade unsheathed in the dark with intimate intentions meant for one individual but not its victim; an approaching corner that suddenly has the promise of hiding a sibling ready to leap forth with spiders covering his or her body.

 

Carlos knows the feeling well and barely flinches when Cecil descends on him from the ceiling. The ceiling had been bare only a second before...

 

A weight settles over Carlos’ head and shoulders with restraint and the scientist experiences chills when the suckers on Cecil’s many arms secure themselves around his jawline with one wrapping along the lines of his forehead. Cecil is careful to keep clear of Carlos’ eyes. Those eyes narrow and are unimpressed. Based on the mass over his shoulders, Carlos can guess without seeing his significant other at just how large Cecil has decided to be today. Cecil is Carlos-sized, and probably hanging from the apartment ceiling with his suction-cups.

 

He is dangling down to enwrap the upper body of the human in the room and it is endearing. It is always endearing when Cecil entangles himself around Carlos. The purring is expected and the tentacles that touch him are neither cool, nor warm -- confusing the nerves of the scientist as his brain tries and always fails to sort the touches into categories based on previous encounters.

 

But Carlos is also bitter. After all, he is covered in tomato sauce and other foodstuffs that are less easily described.

 

Today had been Night Vale’s annual food fight where any individual wearing white asks for attention (and nobody wears white because attention can be cruel in this town) and, oh yeah...new lab coat. Pristine, white, perfect new lab coat...

 

The coat is gone, discarded in the bin outside of Big Rico’s. The shirt underneath is also caked in drying red paste that soaks through the seams with uncharacteristic properties and gums his buttons in fatty, gelatinous gobs. His shoes squelch when he walks, Carlos’ skin itches with the drying sauce, and he is not even going to dwell on how long it will take to get the residue from his hair.

 

As if psychically cued to every thought regarding the state of Carlos’ hair -- oh wait, Cecil is -- the weight on Carlos’ shoulders migrates in slow climbing movements to settle more on the scientists head before vibrating.

 

Carlos knows to stand obediently, rolling his eyes upwards to see. It is through feeling rather than sight that tells Carlos that tiny cephalopod beaks are shluffing locks of his hair into Cecil’s many buccal masses. They all seem to be sucking the paste from Carlos’ coif.

 

“Really, Cecil?” Carlos asks, trying hard not to be amused. The tentacle secured around Carlos’ forehead rubs down in sloppy, petting motions intended to sate the hapless, dirty person underneath. More tentacles slither around the collar of Carlos’ shirt and burrow into the start of his hairline at his neck.

 

He shivers and doesn’t let himself feel ashamed at that. More tiny beaks start to pull gently at his unruly hair.

 

“You planned this,” Carlos challenges.

 

 _Uh huh_ , coos a voice in Carlos’ head, set against a backdrop of white noise. Each time Cecil speaks mentally to Carlos, the white noise obscures the words less and less. It sounds closer and closer to how Carlos’ boyfriend sounds on the radio. The words, along with the good natured strokes of suction-arms on his head are playful. _I’m sorry if it upset you, Carlos._

 

“You’re not even sorry,” Carlos accuses. But he is also not angry anymore. Trying to conjure up a full picture of how the two of them must appear right now knocks the bluster from most of Carlos’ disagreements. He is standing in a disgusting and clinging pile of clothing while Cecil dangles from the ceiling with more beaks than eyes while sucking at his head.

 

When the weight atop of him shifts, dropping behind him, Carlos leans back. He trusts that his partner will be strong enough to support both of them. In answer, filaments form and grow, entwining under Carlos’ arms as they cradle around him. They wriggle and meet where his shirt buttons gather and Carlos holds still and watches as the shining, jelly-covered buttons are suckled clean and then fidgeted with. One by one the buttons undo themselves with Cecil’s help -- some tendrils more adept and coordinated than others.

 

“Is this supposed to count as an apology?” Carlos inquires as his shirt is pulled back. Some of the hairs on his chest are sticky with paste and already the scientist is imagining how the tiny beaks may suck them clean. The clothing disappears behind him as he dwells on the possibilities and only the sudden crunching of buttons and muffled tearing of fabric at his back redirects his attentions. “Hey, am I going to that shirt back? I’ve already lost a coat today!”

 

He half turns to meet a wall of a dozen eyes. Most of them peer at him with sympathetic, guilty looks. Some of the other eyes are glancing down at Carlos’ belt and soiled pants with interest and one single eyeball is being lazy as it stares leftwards into nothingness.

 

Tiny teeth and mandibles tease at his scalp and Carlos grows goosebumps under those stares.

 

 _No more shirt. Sometimes, you just have to let things go_ , concedes Cecil. He adds in a softer, more feathery, eerie whisper: _Let it gooooooooo…_

 

Wise words from an indescribable creature. Though Carlos had not seen Cecil at Big Rico’s, perhaps those very words had inspired the first launch of food in the food fight.

 

Cecil is growing. A bubbling of organic body-tissues tremor around the edges of Carlos’ vision. He feels his boyfriend on his scalp, humming like a motor. He is an island being invaded. A dirty island of sweat, body hair and tomato sauce. All of the eyes (with the lazy one making a valiant effort) peer at Carlos as if seeking forgiveness. Or perhaps it is permission they ask after.

 

“I’m still blaming you,” Carlos drawls. “But you are welcome to clean up this mess you’ve made.”

 

The arm entangled at his brow grows a human-like mouth and briefly kisses Carlos appreciatively on his nose. The rest of Cecil is a tidal wave and Carlos is swallowed.

 

They don’t talk.


End file.
